America’s Last Birthday: Fuck You, and Good Riddance

Originally introduced as “Impeachment Reflection: James Baldwin Warned America of Her Own Destruction, She Didn’t Listen,” this reimagined think piece marks the final reckoning of a nation that has exhausted its moral credit line. Written By Tyson Evans

James Baldwin, for all his critiques of White Supremacy and the violent myths of the American Dream, never wrote America off. His words were both indictment and prayer. He did not love the lie, but he loved the possibility. He loved it like one might love a mother who never stopped inflicting harm, only because her blood runs through your veins.

“I love America more than any other country in the world,” Baldwin wrote, “and, exactly for this reason, I insist on the right to criticize her perpetually.”

He knew America’s demons by name: racism, greed, arrogance, and myth. He predicted that her refusal to tell the truth about herself would be the death of her. The blood-stained hem of her liberty gown would eventually unravel her illusion. If she would not reconcile with the people she enslaved, displaced, imprisoned, and discarded, she would fall like the empires before her.

That prophecy has come due.

Today, on what might be her last birthday, I have no desire to sing, not with this hellish country now accelerating its collapse with the passage of the so-called Big Beautiful Bill—a final, cruel gesture by white supremacist, patriarchal policymakers to cast America’s elders and disabled citizens into economic despair.

This bill is not about policy; it is about extermination. It is about starving the ones who held up the spine of this place, about abandoning those who have already paid their dues.

With it, America has sealed her fate.

You cannot call yourself a democracy and simultaneously gut the foundations of communal care. You cannot drape yourself in God, then spit on the faces of the vulnerable. You cannot refuse to reckon with your past and expect a livable future.

The dress is off, y’all.

Lady Liberty stands bare, stripped of her lace and torch, humiliated on the global stage, no longer able to conceal the decay beneath her colonial corset. Her debt is mounting; her mask has slipped; her glory days are gone. She has become the thing Baldwin feared, a nation too proud to heal and too petty to survive.

Even now, I believe in resurrection—not of America as she was, but of what could be born from her ashes. Let the Fourth of July burn. Let the fireworks become funerals. Let the lie die. In its place, let us build.

Let us till the land of our ancestors and plant the seeds of a sovereign tomorrow. Let us redistribute power and resources, not as charity but as reparation. Let us heal, not through platitudes or policy tweaks but by uprooting the entire poisoned root of extractive empire.

Restorative Reparations is not a trend or a hashtag; it is the blueprint. It is the counterpunch to America’s collapse. It is the way we protect each other when the system would rather bury us.

We are no longer asking for liberation; we are engineering it.

We will heal the harm. We will reclaim the land. We will reroute the money. We will rebuild the world.

One seed, one strategy, one sovereign act at a time.

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Download the full 40-page Restorative Reparations Blueprint—our vision, our math, our plan.

This is no longer America’s story.

This is ours.

Happy Last Birthday, America.

Rest in delusion.